


Unwinnable

by lostboywriting



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Forced Submission, M/M, Sparring as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21927868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostboywriting/pseuds/lostboywriting
Summary: Some days, Joshua wants a fight. Sanae's happy to oblige.
Relationships: Hanekoma Sanae/Kiryu "Joshua" Yoshiya
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21
Collections: The World Exchanges With You 2019





	Unwinnable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paradoxikay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxikay/gifts).



There are days when Joshua comes to WildKat and perches on a stool at the counter and asks for a coffee, and spends the next few hours in companionable consultation with Sanae over their latest ideas about the Game. 

And then there are days when they come to Sanae in a _mood,_ need humming through their frequency in a way that's clearer than any spoken language could be, and press hands against the counter as if it's a prison wall, and stare down with brow creased in thought, and say: "Sometimes, I want a fight I can't win."

It makes sense, Sanae figures. Push your horizons out as far as they'll go--but Joshua's been doing that from the start, pushing and pushing and _pushing,_ and from the start the world has bowed down in the face of Their formidable will.

 _I want something else,_ they said the first time, gaze oddly shadowed. _I want something that won't break._

_Can you give me that?_

It's technically outside a Producer's duties to indulge that kind of request, of course. But Sanae thinks, on the whole, that it's better if Joshua gets these things in-house. Otherwise they might go looking for them, and given that Joshua is _Joshua,_ hell only knows what they might end up bringing home. 

Besides--it's not too often Sanae gets to indulge in a good fight himself, these days.

* * *

Today has been one of those days, and so today they're here, up on the rooftops of Shibuya, dancing. After a fashion.

Sanae throws himself sideways as a beam of holy fire sears past his shoulder. It glances his wingtip, flashing bright hot, and he bites out a curse. Joshua imprints the sense of a smug grin, but no time to roll his eyes at that; there's another beam coming in, and another. Despite the spark of pain smoldering in his wing, Sanae laughs as he dodges between the shots, loving the way the crackling energy passing so close raises the hairs on his arms. There's nothing quite like a rush of danger for pulling one fully into the moment, into body and senses and breath.

He supposes that's why Joshua craves it and shoves it away at the same time.

He doesn't return fire. The deal he and Joshua have settled on is that he sticks to close-range attacks; distance shots are for Joshua alone, for Sanae to evade or defend against as he can. It's not as much of a sacrifice as it might sound; Sanae's always prefered the up-close-and-personal approach, anyway, and he can move as quickly as any Reaper can think. The main idea is to give Joshua some glimpse of a fighting chance before Sanae gets to them.

Today that deal has resulted in a bit of a standoff. Joshua's defenses are tight; they've been at this for over half an hour and Sanae hasn't yet gotten in striking distance. But Joshua is having little more actual success. That hit to Sanae's wing is the first that's landed, and the pain of that one's already fading. Between the rapidfire shots, Sanae catches a glimpse of Joshua's face; the Composer hovers at the center of the rooftop, eyes closed, face set in concentration, and their expression is starting to show strain at the effort of keeping up with him. As the light show clears, Sanae sees a path open, and lunges, faster than thought, claws out--

He's inches away from the slight figure before he realizes that it's not, in fact, Joshua. 

It's a static illusion, but it's a _good_ one, echoing not just Joshua's appearance but a decent approximation of their frequency, too, and made better by the noisy confusion of Joshua's attacks--Sanae's been too busy trying not to get his tail set on fire to look closely, after all. He wonders when Joshua made the switch, but there's no time to stop and study the details--Sanae's claws slide through the image like a cat swatting at a reflection in water, and it vanishes. And more importantly, Joshua's _somewhere_ and Sanae doesn't know where, and that's never a good--

He hisses as a stinging blow catches him squarely across the ass, followed by a less painful but considerably more pointed psychokinetic nudge in the same general area that--well, that wouldn't meet regulations in any tournament match. Joshua laughs, wickedly delighted and directly behind him, and Sanae whirls, ready for blood.

"Ooh, fierce face." Even as Sanae moves the Composer's form dissolves into motes of light, each as bright as a miniature star, and Joshua's speaking voice fades into telepathy: _Don't look so sour; I just wanted to see if that would work._

The lights scatter in every direction. Sanae dives at the closest; it winks out into nothing as he lands on it. _That's a laser pointer, kitty,_ Joshua says.

Sanae lets out a genuine laugh. "Oh, that's how you're gonna be, is it? All right. But don't--" he bats at another light. Not that one-- "go crying about it--" another-- "when the cat decides he's done with being teased."

 _There._ Joshua's doing a good job disguising themself among the little floating bits of soul and imagination they've sent drifting around the rooftop, but one of them has a different kind of shimmer about it than the others, seen from the right angle. Sanae leaps. 

His fist closes around a single point of light, and then he's hauling Joshua down to the rooftop with him, back down to a solid form. Joshua struggles and statics, trying to twist free not only from Sanae's grip but from the constraints of their own body--then freezes as Sanae's hand closes around the wrist of one shimmering, ethereal wing.

Sanae grins. "Gotcha, boss." And under other circumstances he might let the fight go a little longer--but he owes Joshua one for that last poke, and so he tightens his hold and sends a burst of imagination coursing through the grip, willing Joshua solid and damping down their frequency enough to rule out any more psychic attacks.

Joshua's face flushes, and after a moment's pause they tug again at Sanae's hold--but wings are a direct link to the soul and imagination. They're sensitive, and the tips of Sanae's claws pressing in are enough to make Joshua's movements stutter and their breath come sharply. Joshua's always seen themself a distance fighter, standing back and orchestrating their attacks from on high. They could easily imagine themself strong enough to break any normal person's grip, but an angel's is another matter. They go on trying, but gingerly, brief jolts of panic spiking in their frequency at the knowledge of their own entrapment--and if Sanae couldn't hear the harmony singing underneath those jolts, relishing every second of this, he might think he was the bad guy here.

But he can hear it, and he smirks. "So, you got any more tricks you want to try, or--" He catches Joshua around the waist with his free hand, and pulls him close, and lowers his voice to a purr. "Shall we call this one a win for me?"

A quiet, rueful laugh answers him. Joshua looks up at him, gaze softening, and tilts their head, lips parting slightly, and stomps on Sanae's foot.

It's not _completely_ unexpected, and Sanae manages to shift his foot just enough that the blow glances down the side instead of square across the instep, but he still grunts at the pain, and grins, and gives Joshua's wing a retaliatory squeeze, digging his claws in hard. Joshua arches, straining against the arm that circles their waist, and Sanae thinks for a second he's dug too hard, thinks Joshua's going to tap out--but then Joshua's eyes go bright with a dizzy exultation, and Sanae sees the explosion incoming just in time. Not an actual explosion--Sanae's got too tight a hold on their imagination for that--but an explosion of will, Joshua lashing out in every direction available to them at once, a whirlwind of knees and elbows and fists and teeth and the wing Sanae doesn't have hold of, less a divine warrior now than a trapped animal with nothing to lose. They shove at Sanae's chest, buffet the side of his head, kick at his legs, slam fists against his arms--which jars their wing again, and Joshua gasps, muscles convulsing and face contorting, but they don't _stop._

 _I want something I can push, and push, and_ push, _and not break._

It's a ferocious assault. But Joshua's not in a position to do any real damage, and Sanae chuckles. "You're just gonna hurt yourself like that, boss."

"Then I'll hurt myself," Joshua pants, eyes gleaming with defiance. "I'm Composer--I can do what I like, last I heard. Or are you going to do something about it?"

Which is the closest Joshua ever gets to a spoken invitation, and Sanae takes it, shifting his grip on Joshua's waist to slide his hand lower, and lowering his head to press a fierce kiss to Joshua's mouth. Joshua shoves at him, struggling; Sanae holds them tight, and deepens the kiss until their motions grow shaky and half-hearted and the spiky edges running through their aura heat and soften, reluctantly surrendering to Sanae's control.

When Sanae lowers them to the rooftop and gently, _gently_ lets a weight of psychic energy press down over Joshua's wrists and ankles, pinning them in place, Joshua lets out a sigh that sounds something very much like relief.

* * *

_I want a fight I can't win,_ Joshua demands on days like this, but the way Sanae sees it, the Composer's already got _that_ in their own head: wanting, and refusing to let themself want, and perpetually caught in the middle of it. What they really want--whether or not they'll ever say it aloud in so many words--is someone to step in and sort it out for them, now and again.

That's not in a Producer's job description, either, but--well. What's one more indulgence?


End file.
